The Bedroom Barter (9 page)

There was a silence, and Chellie swallowed. She said in a low voice, 'Did he tell you—where he found me—and why?'

'Yes, he told me.' Laurent nodded. 'It was a very bad time for you.'

'And it also makes me an ungrateful bitch,' she said bitterly.

He shrugged. 'Ash is no saint,
mademoiselle
. But which of us is?'

'I should have told him I couldn't cook.' Chellie sighed. 'But it would have made me sound so stupid—so useless.' She shook her head. 'I thought— Everyone cooks, so how hard can it be?'

He gave her a consoling pat on the shoulder. 'Well, you have discovered the answer to that,
ma petite
, But there are not many meals before St Hilaire,' he added encouragingly. 'Your present ordeal will soon be over.'

Maybe, Chellie thought when she was alone. But that doesn't mean I'm going to be able to forget in a hurry. And putting Ash Brennan out of my mind could be one of the hardest things I've ever done.

She felt the sudden pressure of tears, hot and heavy in her throat.

What's happening to me? she asked herself passionately. And how can I please make it stop? Because I don't want this. I don't need it. And, what's more to the point, neither does he.

It was useless telling herself that she was being a pathetic fool. That in reality she knew next to nothing about him. And that after they reached St Hilaire in all probability she would never set eyes on him again.

It's all true, she thought sadly. And it makes no difference—no difference at all. It's too late for that.

And she felt the knowledge—the sheer hurt of that bleak realisation—harden inside her like a stone.

She worked steadily, with just a suspicion of gritted teeth, clearing the washing up and tidying the galley, determined that Ash should have nothing else to criticise. But once that was finished she found herself at something of a loss.

Her position on board was frankly equivocal, she thought, grimacing. Stuck somewhere between non-paying passenger and failed cook. And popular on neither front.

She wondered if she should spend the day in her stateroom, out of sight and out of mind, with the handful of paperback books and magazines which she'd found in a cupboard in the saloon.

Except that was the coward's way out. And she didn't want Ash to gain the impression that she was deliberately avoiding him, in case he asked himself why.

So she would go and spend some time on the sundeck— and if he wanted to clap her in irons, good luck to him.

In her stateroom, she picked the least revealing of the bikinis on offer—plain black with a pretty voile overshirt patterned in black and white—but she still felt thoroughly self-conscious and a little daunted as she emerged into the brilliance of the sunshine.

As if I'm coming out of hibernation after a long winter, she thought wryly as she climbed to the sundeck. Or out of jail after a reprieve.

At the club, she'd almost become a creature of the night, spending most of the day asleep in an exhausted attempt to forget her fetid surroundings. Only aware of the weather outside when rain heavy as pebbles began drumming on the roof, of tropical lightning lit up the room like a laser show.

I'll never take fresh air and sunshine for granted again, she swore fervently.

Ash was there before her, sitting at the table, going through a sheaf of paperwork. He acknowledged her presence with a brief nod, but she felt he was simply preoccupied rather than unwelcoming.

Well, it was a start, she thought. She slipped off her shirt and stretched out on one of the cushioned loungers, closing her eyes, feeling the heat penetrating down to her bones, dispelling the last, lingering chill of fear.

She realised now that being afraid had become a way of life. That she'd begun waiting from hour to hour for the next blow to fall. And that was insidious, because it withered hope and sapped the will to resist.

If Ash hadn't come, she thought, how long before she'd have stopped caring what happened to her? Before she'd yielded listlessly to whatever plans Mama Rita had for her?

In many ways it had been the same with her father, she realised. What had been the point of fighting him when she always lost? Maybe this was why Ramon had found her such an easy victim. Because rebelling against her father in such a basic way was her only chance of victory in their war of attrition.

'Here.' Ash's voice broke curtly into her reverie, and she looked up with a start to see him holding out a large tube of cream to her.

'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I—I was miles away.'

'You'll be miles away in hospital if you're not careful.' He uncapped the tube. 'Sunblock,' he said. 'Use plenty.'

'Oh,' Chellie said. 'Well—thank you.'

'Think nothing of it,' he returned politely. 'I didn't want you to suffer the same fate as the toast, that's all.' And he went back to the table and his papers.

Beast, thought Chellie, sending a muted glare to join him. But maybe it was better this way. Because if he ever started being nice to her then she would really be in trouble.

She applied the sunblock with conscientious care, then settled back and opened one of the magazines she'd brought with her and began glancing in a desultory way through its glossy pages.

On the face of it, everything back to normal, she thought. Only she knew, deep in her heart, that nothing would ever be the same again.

She was disturbingly aware of him, seated only a few yards away. She found she was registering every slight movement, even the rustle of the papers as he turned them over.

Before long I'll be counting the hours again, she thought bitterly. Panicking about the length of the trip to St Hilaire.

Ash shuffled the papers together and rose. He said, 'I'm going to get Laurent a beer. Do you want anything?'

'A Coke, maybe.' Chellie reached for her shirt. 'Shall I get them?'

'Relax,' he advised lazily. 'You're like a cat on hot bricks.' He gave her a long look. 'What's the matter? Scared that Manuel is going to come over the horizon, flying the skull and crossbones and singing "Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum"?' He shook his head. 'Unlikely.'

She smiled tautly. 'But not impossible.'

'Roughly on the same level as being abducted by aliens.' He paused. 'Rats like Manuel don't stray far from their sewers.'

She said in a low voice, 'There was a time, not so long ago, when I wouldn't have believed that people like him— like Mama Rita—even existed. I know better now. And I never believed in miracles either,' she added. 'I'm having to rethink my position on them too, thanks to you.'

She hesitated. 'And I haven't thanked you, have I? Not really. Not as I should have done.' She bit her lip. 'Maybe now would be an appropriate time.'

'Did you sleep well last night?' Ash's tone was quizzical, and when she nodded he smiled at her swiftly, with a charm that made her heart lurch. 'Then that's all the thanks I need,' he said, and went.

Chellie subsided limply against her cushions. She'd felt that smile like the brush of his fingers across her skin.

She thought, Oh, God, I'll have to be careful. So very careful.

She could hear him talking to Laurent Heard the sound of their laughter. Men comfortable in their skins, at ease together.

I wish I could be like that with him, she thought. Relaxed. No edge.

Able to meet and part as friends.

But we're barely acquaintances. He walked into my life, and saved it, and soon he'll walk away again. In a few months, or even weeks, I'll be a vague memory. A half-forgotten incident. And to pretend anything else would be ludicrous.

Ash came back a few minutes later and put a bottle of Coke with a straw down beside her. He moved over to the rail and stood watching the boat's wake, apparently lost in thought as he drank his beer.

Chellie took a long swallow of her ice-cold drink to ease her dry throat, then she rose and went to stand beside him.

She said constrictedly, 'I—I'm really sorry about breakfast.' She took a deep breath. 1—lied because I was afraid you'd leave me behind if I said I couldn't cook.'

'No,' he said, after a pause, 'I wouldn't have done that' His mouth twisted. 'But I might have asked you to display one of your other talents instead.'

Chellie tensed, giving him a wary sideways glance. 'What do you mean?' She hoped he hadn't detected the faint tremor in her tone.

He said quietly, 'You have the most beautiful singing voice. I might have asked for an after-dinner serenade.'

She flushed, surprised. 'Thank you.'

'Did you sing professionally back in Britain?' The question sounded casual, but the blue eyes were curious.

Chellie shook her head. 'No. I was never able to have proper training.'

'Was that what you wanted?'

'Yes, at one time I wanted it very much.'

For a brief, painful moment she could remember how she'd begged to be allowed to enter for a scholarship to a leading academy, and how she'd been brusquely refused. What was more, her father had given instructions at her school that her musical studies were to cease with immediate effect How many times had she cried herself to sleep in the weeks that followed? She'd lost count.

She said flatly, 'It just wasn't considered a viable career. And they were probably right.' She forced a determined smile. 'After all, I hardly wowed them at Mama Rita's.'

'Choose another audience,? he said. "And, training or not, it might be a different story.? He slanted a faint grin at her. "Besides, you made a profound impression on me. Or had you forgotten?'

Her flush deepened. 'No. But you aren't exactly the typical Mama Rita customer.' She paused. 'Whatever made you pick that particular bar?'

He shrugged. 'It sold alcohol.'

'Yes, but so did a dozen others. And that wasn't its main commodity, as you must have realised.'

'Yes, I knew.' He gave her a mocking glance. 'Never underestimate the depravity of the male sex, songbird.'

Chellie looked away. She said quietly, 'You don't look like someone who needs to pay for cheap thrills.'

'The thrills were certainly questionable.' Ash's voice was dry. 'Cheap they were not'

She winced. 'I'd forgotten that' She lifted her chin. 'And I've caused you enough problems already, so I don't intend you to be out of pocket as well. I—I will repay you somehow—some day.'

'Oh, forget it,' he said with a touch of impatience. 'God knows, I could do with a few credits on my moral balance sheet'

There seemed to be no answer to that. Chellie was silent for a moment while she searched for a neutral subject. Eventually she said, 'This is a fabulous boat'

'Thank you. I'll tell the owner you said so.'

'You said you were delivering it for him?' Her brow creased. 'From Santo Martino?'

'No, from La Tortuga. He'd just put in there when he was suddenly called away on business. So he needed someone to sail
La Belle Rêve
back to St Hilaire.'

Is that where he lives?'

'Some of the time. But he's not there at the moment'

'Oh,' she said. 'So, what were you doing in Santo Martino?'

'Fuel,' he said. 'Supplies. It's a good marina.'

'You must be great friends with this man,' she said. 'If he's prepared to trust you with his boat.'

'Ah,' he said lightly, 'but I'm eminently trustworthy.'

And his daughter
, she thought.
Does he trust you with her too
? Thought it, but did not dare ask it aloud. Because it was too personal—and too revealing a question. Besides, it was none of her business.

He'd done her the greatest favour of her life, but that didn't compel him to reveal every detail of his private affairs to her.

Not that he ever would, she thought slowly. There was something about Ash Brennan—something closed and separate. You could probably know him for a dozen years and never do more than scratch the outer shell.

He seemed—totally self-sufficient. Complete in himself. So, even if he met a woman he wanted, would he be prepared to allow her into his heart and mind? Make the necessary emotional commitment? It seemed less than likely.

Maybe it's as well we're going different ways, she thought, before I wreck my heart on his indifference.

She hurried into speech again. 'Will you stay on St Hilaire for long?'

He shrugged. 'Possibly. My plans are flexible.'

'Is this what you do for a living? Skipper other people's boats?'

'I can turn my hand to all kinds of things,' he said. 'And you ask a lot of questions, songbird.'

She flushed again. 'I'm sorry. I'm just envious, I suppose, of all the freedom you seem to have.'

'No one is ever completely free,' he said. 'But I'm working on it.' He paused. 'And what about you, Michelle Greer? What are your plans for the next fifty years?'

She stared down at the sea. 'I'm not making any immediate plans,' she said in a low voice. 'I don't seem to be very good at it.'

'I'd quite like to ask a few questions of my own.' He drank some of his beer. 'Are you up for it?'

'Why not?' Chellie returned with a touch of defensiveness.

'Oh, I can think of several reasons.' Leaning on the rail, he sent her a fleeting grin. 'You're a bit of a mystery, Michelle.'

'Really?' She raised her eyebrows. 'You, of course, are an open book.'

'I do hope not,' he said softly. 'How dull it would be if everyone I met could guess how things would end.'

'You don't have to worry about that,' she said. 'Ask away. I have nothing to hide,' she added, mentally crossing her fingers.

'Is that a fact?' His drawl was amused. 'Then that probably makes you unique. But we won't pursue that—or not at the moment, anyway.' He paused. 'How did you come to be in South America?'

'I went there to be married.'

If she'd expected a reaction she was disappointed. He simply nodded thoughtfully.

So,' he said. 'What happened to the happy bridegroom?'

'He—changed his mind. Perhaps, like you, he preferred his freedom.'

'Why come all this way for a wedding?'

Chellie shrugged defensively. 'Lots of people get married in exotic locations. As it happens, Caribbean islands are immensely popular.'